


Sneak home and pray you'll never know, the hell where youth and laughter go

by ijustlookatpictures



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bonding, Coping, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Let's face it they all has CTSD, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Say it with me - I CAN'T TAG TO SAVE MY LIFE, Sledge has CTSD, Sledge is moments from cracking, Snafu comes to the rescue, They were just trying to survive, War is hell, Who doesn't love caring Snafu?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:21:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23227765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ijustlookatpictures/pseuds/ijustlookatpictures
Summary: His explosion came without warning and without a chance to stop it. A strangled grunt, tears flowing hot and heavy from his eyes.He threw his bible angrily into the dirt, fuck God.God wasn’t here. God couldn’t help him. No one could help him. They were all going to die here.Eugene struggles to cope with the aftermath of the Okinawan woman in the shack; Shelton helps.
Relationships: Merriell "Snafu" Shelton & Eugene Sledge, Merriell "Snafu" Shelton/Eugene Sledge
Comments: 8
Kudos: 36





	Sneak home and pray you'll never know, the hell where youth and laughter go

As a child, Eugene had had a phobia of burglars.

He would jolt awake from nightmares in the pitch black, crippled with timidity that masked men would be in the house, stealing their possessions, coming to hurt them. As he cowered beneath the covers, he was clutched by the griping fear that he would have to get out of bed to face his intruders, rendering him a petrified, quivering wreck.

He had never known fright like it in his life, nor did he think he would experience anything comparable to it again.

At least, not until the day he had set foot onto the beaches of Peleliu.

For the first time in almost a decade, he'd been forced to acknowledge the feeling, once again - the terror.

Only this time, he couldn't hide beneath the sheets, knowing his parents were down the hallway and his brother was sleeping in the next bed.

This time, he had no choice but to get out of bed to face the intruders. Only these intruders weren't masked monsters, these intruders were men like him, simply who fought for the other side.

The most important lesson that he had learnt from the Marine Corps was that men down the hall hadn't been what made the dream so unbearable. It was his own fear that gripped him, the terror of the unknown.

Since reaching the war, he had lived and fought with that terror every waking moment of every single day. And now it had consumed him.

Curled behind a rock, Eugene finally let the tears begin to flow. 

Abject numbness had transcended into desolate rage which had escalated into an unrelenting, overwhelming fear. 

He could no longer shut his eyes. Because within the darkness, that was all there was - the terror. He could barely even blink - sleep was a long and distant memory.

Instead replaced by short, unrestful bursts of unconsciousness, the stream of horror running behind his lids like a perverse picture show.

The airfield, Oswalt, Ack-Ack, Hillbilly, Haney, Bill, the innumerable boots that had made it barely an afternoon.

The screaming of the Okinawan Mother as she tried to hand over her child, the way her baby exploded at the end of the bomb, the wails of the infant in the hut, the desperation of the old woman dragging his gun to her face, her warm frail body beneath his hands as she shuddered her final breaths. 

Each Jap that exploded out of nowhere, their weapons gleaming beneath the sunlight, the clacking of their war calls, the way they seemed to just materialise - always screaming at him in tongues. 

Hatred was a universal language, he’d discovered.

It coursed through the veins of each and every Nip that they had faced, the rage in their eyes, the fury behind each bullet. They despised every single one of them.

He had never been hated before the Marines. Then again, they hated the Japs, equally.

Just that morning, he'd screamed into Mac's face that he was prepared to kill them with his bare hands - he'd meant it, too. When he was killing he was in control; when he was in control he wasn't as frightened.

He'd covered every emotion to try and cope with the death that surrounded him: the anger, the indifference, the maniacal, the righteousness, the senseless. It always came full circle in the end, back to broken and terrified.

Except this time was different.

This time, Eugene had finally acknowledged he was snapping.

He was ready to completely collapse at any moment and there wasn't a single damn thing he could do to stop it. He’d realised what the trigger had been several days ago, it wasn’t the danger or the terror or the depravity.

It was the blood. The proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.

Blood.

It was a stench he couldn’t get out of his nostrils, the air was heavy with it, even the breeze was saturated with it. They inhaled lungfuls of it with every breath.

Worse yet, he couldn’t get his hands clean, no matter how much water he poured over them. He could feel the blood everywhere, it permeated every ounce of his skin. It was all blood and mud.

He could walk around naked and still feel fully dressed with the amount of filth he carried.

It clung to him, inside every crevice. Beneath his nails, inside his ears, matted in his hair, clumped in his eyelashes, across his cheeks, hanging to his stubble, engrained on his lips and in his mouth where he’d swallowed it, desiccated into his wrists, down his uniform, smeared across his legs, between his toes, up his fucking ass crack.

He didn’t think the dirt would ever come off. 

He was done with all of it - the blood, the mud, the death... He couldn't take any more of it; he just wanted out. There was no more he could do here - he was ready.

But he wasn’t leaving; none of them were.

The only way out of the godforsaken hellhole that was Okinawa was as your body decomposed beneath the blistering Oceanic sunlight, flesh rotting in the heat. 

He just hoped it was quick, painless, sudden. A bullet flying out of nowhere straight through his head, maybe, or a bayonet into his heart as he slept. T

hen again, he'd settle for a Columbian Necktie, with a Glasgow Smile if it got him out of here, sooner.

A sudden scraping beside him made him flinch.

He cowered, expecting the scream of _'Banzai!_ ' and a bayonet thrusting forward as a Nip descended upon him. But it wasn’t a Jap; it was only Shelton.

Eugene flushed with humiliation, he bowed his head, hoping his outburst had gone unnoticed. He felt Shelton's eyes boring into him. With a heavy sigh, he clambered down beside him, mirroring Eugene's position, his back against the rock.

Eugene's stomach sank. He wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone, not even Shelton. He just wanted to be alone. 

He sniffed loudly, clearing his throat as he scrubbed at the dirt on his face, hoping to smear the mud enough to hide the tear tracks. He prayed that Shelton wouldn’t notice he’d been crying. He wasn’t in the mood for the questions or the ribbing or just the _incessant wittering._

He just wanted silence.

Just wanted to stop the screaming in his ears, stop the stench of death permeating his nose, stop the look of desolation on the Okinawan woman’s face as he held her. He wanted it all to stop.

‘You OK there, Sledgehammer?’ Shelton’s voice was different than expected, softer.

Eugene cleared his throat and nodded, managing a strangled _‘yeah’_. He gripped his bible open at a random page to give the impression he’d been reading.

He surveyed the book.

Its navy cover was long discoloured, mud ingrained into the edges. The embossed golden cross had long lost its shine. Instead, it was dirty, dishevelled - a fragmented version of the copy that had set off from Mobile. Much like Eugene.

They sat in silence for a long time.

He’d hoped Shelton would saunter off at his lack of conversation. He didn't.

Instead, he shuffled closer to him until they were sat side by side, knees brushing. Eugene was acutely aware of the fact his gaze had never wavered from him.

Shelton held out his battered cigarette packet.

‘I’m fine.’ Eugene answered after a beat, hoping Shelton missed the way his voice shook. Hoping he would still _take the hint and leave_. He didn't.

‘Ain't a suggestion, Gene.’ Shelton replied, nudging the packet towards him. ‘It’ll calm you down… you’re panting like a fucking track dog.’ 

Eugene stopped for a moment, realising he was indeed gasping air in and out of his lungs like he was searching for his last breath. He felt very hot, like thousands of eyes were scrutinizing him. He was suppressing the urge to cry, he realised. Desperately, using every last ounce of energy to maintain the façade of normality.

He so wanted to believe Shelton didn’t see right through him.

Wordlessly, he cleared his throat, reaching for the cigarette. Only as he held out his hand did he realise how badly he was shaking. So much so, he missed the cigarette twice.

He looked down at his trembling fingers, engrained with mud and dirt and blood and shit. He tried with all of his might to steady his hand. He willed himself, he begged himself.

He was so fucking _weak_ , so fucking _useless,_ such a fucking _child_.

He thought he could ever make it as a marine? Who in God’s name was he kidding?! He was an impediment, not a soldier. Still the same pitiful little boy with a bad heart.

He was going to get someone killed when he snapped, he hoped to God it would be himself.

He tried for a third time, missing the cigarette by millimetres. 

His explosion came without warning and without a chance to stop it - a strangled grunt, tears flowing hot and heavy from his eyes.

He threw his bible angrily into the dirt with a wretched yelp, _f_ _uck God._

God wasn’t here. God couldn’t help him. No one could help him. They were all going to die here.

He crumbled in on himself, hands protecting his head as he scrunched himself over, weeping freely into his knees, body racking with sobs.

All he could see was the Okinawan woman dying in his arms, Ack-Ack’s body carried through the trench, the unseeing eyes of the dead Japanese soldier flailing towards him, his own shrieks as he fell against the maggot-ridden corpse in the bog, the Okinawan boy executed by overzealous Boot and their hoots of delight, Bill struggling in the mud, blindly screaming.

There was so much screaming.

Then he saw his Mother, crying in the window waiting for the son who never came home. Deacon, dying, sad, frightened and alone wondering where on earth his Master went. Edward, lying in a ditch in Europe, his body consumed with Nazi bullets. His Father, weeping at his desk over their returned dog tags. _What had he done to them?_

Then he was drawn back to the stench. The blood, the blistered skin and rotting flesh that filled his nostrils. God, the smell... and the _maggots_.

He didn’t know so many maggots could exist. The rats, fuck _the rats,_ he’d hated rats since he was a boy.

But these were no rats like he’d ever seen. They were enormous and fearless from the abundance of flesh to gnaw on. Daily they would pass bodies that were swarming with rats, feasting. Their squeaking was inescapable, audible as they marched, as they ate, as they tried to sleep. They were everywhere. He felt like they were swarming him, gnawing away at him. 

He wept, jerking away from the onslaught of teeth, clawing his nails into his skin to rid himself of the maggots, trying to yank the jaws of the rodents off of him.

He’d forgotten he wasn’t alone until a hand closed over his fingers as they tore at his arms, raking red, angry lines up his skin. His scratching nails were pulled away.

The familiar drawl, only slower, dejected and pained.

‘Ain’t nothing there, Sledgehammer.’ His hands were pressed into his chest as he was pulled into a tight embrace. ‘Ain’t nothing there, it’s OK. You’re OK, Gene.’

Fresh, pitiful, humiliating sobs rolled from his body with choking breaths, but Shelton didn’t utter a sound in response.

Instead, he held him closely, one hand buried in his hair grounding him, brushing out some of the dirt and scratching soothingly at his scalp, holding Eugene’s face tightly to his jacket. The other rubbed his back, rhythmically. He rocked them both silently, the movement was methodical, calming.

For someone who had so obviously rarely been held in his life, Eugene was staggered by the warmth and security that Shelton's embrace gave him. As though he had so seldom received affection that he knew the worth that such an act could provide. For he felt in that moment that all the mortars in the Pacific could come crashing down around them and it wouldn't matter. He would be protected from it all by Shelton's strong arms. 

‘Stay with me, Sledgehammer.’ He murmured, his voice didn’t sound his own. He sounded so terribly sad and so terribly frightened. ‘You’ve gotta stay with me, Gene, we’ve come too far. You ain’t gonna crack now. You _ain’t gonna crack_.’

There was a pause and a staggered breath.

‘Please, Gene... Dear God, just stay with me. Worst is over – I promise...' He leant over, pressing his mouth into the filthy tendrils of hair at the base of Eugene's bowed head. '...It won’t get worse. I swear to you... _It won’t get worse_.’

They stayed like that for a long time, Eugene weeping until he had nothing left, Shelton rocking him, holding him tightly, whispering assurances to him. Minutes had passed by the time he stopped sobbing.

He’d hoped letting it all out would make him feel better. It hadn't. If anything, he felt worse - violated that Shelton had witnessed his break of façade. Humiliated that he needed comforting like a child.

Especially by Shelton.

Shelton for all he was, for however questionable his morals or his treatment of the Boots... Shelton was always there.

With his infallible ability to load and work the mortar to protect his men, his indomitable spirit and his ability to see the humour where other men cried.

The way he tried to break the Boots himself - relentlessly, harshly. It must have been fucking exhausting. But if a man was going to break, Shelton usually spotted it within the first five minutes; if he could break them safely, within escaping distance to a safer platoon - he would. It kept the boots safe; if kept the platoon safe. Not many people understood that.

Moreover, it was his unwavering presence of just being _there._ Shelton was always there. Where was he for Shelton?

He was despondent, detached, empty, sticky from his tears. His breath came out in strained pants, bile hot and spicy in his throat as images engulfed him in a claustrophobic haze.

Except this time, it wasn’t the memories that haunted him.

This time, it was the biting fear in his chest that Shelton would be next.

He could deal with the others dying. It broke a piece of him each time, but he could keep battling on. That’s what they did, that’s why they were there.

But if Shelton went? _Fuck._

He’d lie down right beside him.

Because if Shelton went, Eugene would have got nothing left. He wouldn't survive here if he wasn't. There would be nothing to survive _for_.

It was that moment that it hit him. For as much as the blood and the death and the vermin and the screaming were his triggers. Shelton was his homing signal, Shelton was his crutch, his rock, his protector, his anchor. As long as Shelton was there; he wasn't allowed to break. Shelton wouldn't _let_ him break.

‘Sit up.’

The voice broke him sharply from his own thoughts. Shelton's tone was still soft, steady - lacking its usual sarcasm and derision.

Eugene did as he was told as if he was still the obedient boy who scrubbed oil drums in the camp at Pavuvu.

He kept his head bowed, too ashamed to look Shelton in the eyes. Too despondent, embarrassed, frightened and just so _fucking dirty_.

He watched silently as Shelton reached into his bandolier for his canteen, untwisting the screw top.

‘Gonna get the fuckin’ yell’a disease clawin’ wi' nails like that.’ He muttered, reaching hold of Eugene’s hands and pouring the clean water across his filthy skin. He scrubbed with his palms, washing away the ingrained dirt that lay there. ‘You’ll feel better when you’re cleaned up a bit.’

He poured more water over him, reaching to wipe the claw marks on his forearms. If Eugene had the energy, he'd wince at the stinging.

‘Rub your hands.’ Shelton urged and he complied meekly, watching the mud pour away.

Shelton splashed a final slosh of fresh water over him.

He could see his hands, skin pink and woundless, aside from a few minor nicks. He turned them over, disbelieving his own body could look so clean. There were no maggots, there were no rats.

‘See... nothing there.’ Shelton gave him a small smile and tears instantly welled in Eugene's eyes again. ‘Clean your face too, you look like your camouflaged.’

He gave the smallest chuckle, wiping at his eyes as Shelton tipped water into hand and began to scrub at his face, from his hairline to his chin. Eugene shuddered violently from the cold, but Shelton persisted, ignoring him.

He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew his handkerchief.

Eugene regarded it as the cleanest thing he’d seen in weeks, despite the fact it was utterly filthy. Silently, Shelton added more water to the rag and finished wiping his face, his skin felt less tight, less suffocating.

‘That a bit better?’ He asked, and Eugene nodded, genuinely. ‘You look a new man.’ Shelton assured him, with a smile. 'Ready for all the skirt in the US.' 

Something about the statement settled heavily in Eugene's chest. He wasn’t a new man. He still felt as broken - but he appreciated the sentiment all the same.

Shelton returned to his cigarette packet, pulling two cigarettes out and placing one in Eugene’s slack lips and another between his own. He reached for his lighter, igniting the flame and lifting it to the edge of Eugene’s cigarette. 

‘Smoke.’ He directed and Eugene nodded obediently, reaching for the cigarette and inhaling. ‘There you go.’ 

He lit his own and sat back. 

‘We’ll be out of here, any day.’ He murmured after a moment, reaching to rub his shoulder again. His voice remained mirthless. ‘Do you promise me, you will hold it together, Gene?’ 

Slowly, Eugene nodded again. _Anything for Shelton, any lie for Shelton._

‘We’ll get back to camp and you just need a good night’s sleep, a shower… some hot chow.’ 

Eugene so hoped that was true. Personally, he felt like he needed a bullet to the back of the head, like wounded livestock.

Shelton stared at him with that hollow expression on his face. The one that seemed to penetrate down to your soul, it made Eugene feel painfully exposed. As though every thought in his mind was visible. 

‘I’m frightened.’ Eugene confessed quietly, in between drags. Shelton was right, the nicotine was calming his nerves substantially. ‘I’ve never been this frightened.’

‘Me, too.’ Shelton agreed, reaching back into his breast pocket. He withdrew the reappropriated oilskin bag that he liked to keep his cigarettes and lighter in when it rained. Delicately, he pulled out the remnants of rations that he'd obviously squirrelled away. Withdrawing the contents, he carefully laying them against his crossed knee. A _full_ pack of biscuits, two pieces of chewing gum and a wrapped chocolate fudge.

‘You need to eat something.’ He stated, unwrapping the waterproof packaging of the biscuits with his teeth.

Eugene watched him slack-jawed.

They had been starving for days, almost a week. They'd been having to stretch a one day ration to two days, sometimes three. They were all famished, weak from hunger. 

What Shelton was trying to share was more valuable than gold. A treasure he was unwilling to accept. He must have been able to tell exactly what Eugene was thinking.

‘Take it.’ He murmured, holding out the open packet of crackers. ‘They're the Graham Crackers... you like 'em.'

Eugene didn't move.

'Gene, for the love of God... please take it.’

It was the _please_ that did it.

‘We'll share 'em.’ He murmured tightly, his voice threatening to crack as he took the biscuit that Shelton offered to him. 

Shelton clicked his tongue disapprovingly but took the second cracker all the same.

At another time in his life, he would have felt ridiculous for feeling so emotional over a godforsaken scrap of food. But as he finally glanced up at Shelton, chewing on his cracker, face still filthy where Eugene's was clean, he really couldn't have given less of a shit to the ignorance of old Eugene, _privileged Eugene_.

This was a man who had _nothing_ , sharing everything.

‘You’ve had a smoke, you’ve had a wash, you’ve had some chow.’ Shelton stated, with an encouraging smile. ‘You’ll feel better.’ He squeezed his shoulder assuringly. ‘You’ll feel better.’ 

Eugene nodded again, forcing the cracker into his mouth as he tried to chew against the griping pains in his stomach.

Shelton handed over his canteen without even looking at him. He gratefully accepted it, washing the biscuit down his throat before returning to the cigarette. Shelton immediately passed him a second and he repeated the routine. It was only as he swallowed that he realised there had only been three crackers in the packet.

‘Here... you need the sugar more’n I do.’ Shelton urged, holding out the toffee to him.

Eugene shook his head, vehemently. They hadn’t seen anything remotely candy-like for weeks, how he had held onto it for so long he had no clue.

‘Snaf, I can’t take that.’ He answered, holding his hand up in objection. 'I _won't_.'

Shelton rolled his eyes.

‘Just damn _take it_ , Mary-Ellen.’ He repeated, forcing the wrapper upon him. ‘Take it or I’ll tell the new Boots you wanna be their friend.’

Eugene scoffed, despite himself - that was a fate far worse than death.

‘I’ll take half.’ He resolved.

‘You’ll take the whole thing.’ Shelton persisted, smoking his cigarette. ‘I'll tell Peck I caught you jacking off to Kit-Kat.’

‘You’re a…’ Eugene trailed off, obligingly he unwrapped the toffee. ‘Thank you, Snaf.’ He murmured, before placing it in his mouth.

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Shelton waved absently, still smoking.

The toffee had been melted and reformed innumerable times from the blistering heat and the biting rain. Frankly, it barely even resembled a toffee anymore. But it was the damn best thing that Eugene had ever eaten.

It was the kindest thing anyone had ever done for him and he wholeheartedly believed the kindest thing anyone ever would do. Especially because it came from Shelton.

They smoked in silence, the distant bustling of other men filling the air.

‘I wish I could give you more.’ Shelton muttered, after a moment. ‘Wish I could do more, Gene.’

His words slammed directly back into Eugene’s chest and the biting need to cry re-emerged. He lowered his head, gazing out across the rocky ridge as he tossed away his burnt-out cigarette.

‘You’ve given me more than enough.’ He responded, tightly, surmising they were no longer talking about the food. He wished he could offer something back.

There was a beat. 

‘She was alive.’ He stated, keeping his gaze on his cleaned hands, picking at the remaining dirt beneath his nails.

‘Who?’ Shelton asked, stretching back against the rocks. 

‘In the shack…’ He trailed off. ‘With the baby.’ 

Shelton frowned but remained silent.

‘I think it was the Grandma, but I don’t know… could’ve been the Mom, they all look the same.’

‘Yella?’ Shelton offered, in an attempt at humour.

Eugene snorted dryly but shook his head, finally raising his head to look at Shelton. ‘Broken.’

He cleared his throat.

‘She…. she…. Took my gun and pointed it to her face. And she…’ He trailed off, eyes welling with tears again. ‘She wanted me to shoot her.’

Shelton glanced at him. ‘Did you?’ He asked.

Eugene blinked.

There was never an ounce of judgement with Shelton.

No matter what you did, what you wanted to do, how you acted. You could never frighten him, could never shock him, could never disgust him.

Eugene wondered, _was that why he clung to him?_

The knowledge that nothing he could ever do would push Shelton away.

Shelton accepted him, without question, without judgement and without expectation - he was the first person in Eugene's whole life to have done so.

‘Put my gun down.’ He answered, after several moments. ‘Held her…’ He trailed off, wiping tears from his freshly cleaned face with his less grubby hands. ‘’Til she… til she died.’

Shelton shut his eyes, letting out a dry breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. 

‘You’re a good man, Eugene.’ He stated, placing the now empty oilskin bag back into his pocket before holding out one of the sticks of gum for Eugene. ‘That’s why this is so hard.' He paused, enamoured by his own hands. 'But...' He trailed off. 'Sometimes you gotta pick a gun up to put the gun down... d'ya get me?'

Eugene turned the stick of gum over in his hands, engrossed by the rubbed off O on the embossed Orbit label, before glancing at him in silent affirmation.

‘We’ve got a job to do.' Shelton continued. 'We’re here to end this shit and…’ His voice trailed off. ‘It _will_ end, Gene.’ 

‘Will it?’ Eugene asked, unsurely, Slowly unwrapping the foil and popping it into his mouth. It was minty and the freshest his mouth had felt for longer than he could remember.

With a chink of his lighter, Shelton lit another cigarette.

‘Yeah.’ He asserted, exhaling smoke from his nose ‘It will fuckin’ end and you’ll be home in ‘Bama, by the end of the year. Back with your Mama in a nice warm bed, a nice full belly, ain’t ever havin’ to pick up a gun or sit in mud another damn day in your life.’

‘You think?’ Eugene asked, with a soft laugh. It sounded like a dream, it sounded like heaven.

‘If you ain’t.’ Shelton reached forward and picked up the discarded bible from the mud. ‘Then there ain’t no God, Eugene.’ He wiped it clean against his thigh, pausing to glance at it. ‘And you believe in God, don’t ya?’

‘Don’t know if I do, anymore.’ Eugene responded.

‘You gotta.’ Shelton answered, passing the book to him. ‘I’m relyin’ on you puttin’ in a word with the big man for me. I’m destined for damnation if you don’t.’

The statement, though made in humour, settled heavily against Eugene's stomach - it made him feel uncomfortable.

‘You ain’t damned, Snaf.’ He responded, shaking his head decidedly. 'Met lots'a people who're damned and you ain't one of 'em.'

Shelton raised his eyebrows. ‘Only a man who believes in God would believe in damnation.’ He prosed, butting their shoulders together.

Eugene smiled, softly. ‘Guess I walked into that, huh?’ He murmured.

‘Yeah you did.’ Shelton answered with a smirk, returning to his cigarette.

There was a pause

‘Snaf, if I don’t make it...’ Eugene began slowly.

‘Shut the fuck up!’ Shelton’s snapped harshly, his anger erupting from nowhere, dripping through his tone.

The words dried up in Eugene’s mouth, he was so used to Shelton's affable side that his temper, that was exclusively reserved for Japs and Boots, almost rendered him back to tears.

Shelton seemed to be able to tell for when he spoke again, his voice was softer.

‘I ain't no liar, Eugene Sledge.' He stated, stiffly. 'I told you you'd make it and I swear to fuckin’ God, Gene - you’ll make it... so let's not dwell on what ain't gonna happen... yeah?’

Eugene took a moment to compose himself, before he tried again. He needed to say this.

He swallowed. ‘ _If_ I don’t make it.’ He paused. ‘Will you do something for me?’

Shelton huffed a breath through his nose, glancing irritably over his shoulder before returning his gaze to his knees.

‘What? He muttered stiffly, after a moment.

‘Will you go and meet my Mother?’ Eugene asked, hesitantly. ‘Go and introduce yourself... tell her who you are. Let her know…’ His voice caught. ‘Just let her know you.’

There was a pause, before Shelton nodded.

‘But I ain’t makin’ out without ya, Gene.’ He stated, after a moment. ‘If anythin’ happens to you, we’re both gonners, won’t have no fight left in me.’ He paused. 'Only thing that keeps me puttin' one boot in front of the other is you... you 'n Burgie.'

There was something on the tip of Eugene’s tongue. He wasn't sure what. Whatever it is, it doesn’t come out.

Instead, it was replaced.

‘Think of all them Boots you’d have followin’ you round if I choke it.’ He stated with a smile.

‘Fucking... I’d eat the tip of my rifle.’ Shelton resolved and Eugene laughed.

Suddenly, he was struck with a lungful of fresh air as a breeze ran across the rocks.

For that moment, the war isn’t as scary anymore, the memories aren’t as agonising, the air isn’t as suffocating as he realised.

The screaming had stopped.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I would love to know what you think.
> 
> * The title is an excerpt of the poem 'Suicide in the Trenches' by Siegfried Sassoon.*


End file.
